


Quicker Through the Sternum

by Draycevixen



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Chocolate Box Exchange, Cooking, Developing Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-19 21:24:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5981413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draycevixen/pseuds/Draycevixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started in Boston with beer, far too much beer, some vodka and a sad lack of bratwurst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quicker Through the Sternum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [merle_p](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merle_p/gifts).



It started in Boston with beer, far too much beer, some vodka and a sad lack of bratwurst. He'd been complaining about it and insisting that the next time they were in Berlin they'd have to take time to eat some and Napoleon had dragged him off in search of a German deli. Napoleon had then charmed the clerk into letting them into the closed hotel kitchen and cooked him the best bratwurst and sauerkraut he'd had in years. 

He'd stopped shoveling it into his mouth for just long enough to tell Napoleon that. "It's adequate."

Napoleon had nodded solemnly and poured him another beer. 

 

In Rome, in the shabby little apartment they were using as a base of operations, Napoleon had made him an incredible Spaghetti Alla Puttanesca.

"It's good." He'd wiped sauce off his chin with the back of his hand and kept eating.

Napoleon had laughed and poured him some more Chianti. 

 

In Marseilles, Napoleon had rescued him after he’d been chained up in a basement for two days by the simple expediency of shooting Illya's captor point blank in the face. Napoleon had carefully helped him bathe, cleaned and bandaged his wounds and made him lie down and rest on the luxurious sofa in the villa previously owned by the man who was now dead in its basement. Three hours later, Napoleon had carefully woken him and fed him Bouillabaisse that would have made the angels weep, if such creatures had ever existed. 

He hadn't said anything, he'd been too busy eating, but Napoleon had smiled and kept refilling his bowl. 

 

In Paris it had been Blanquette de Veau, in Malta Fenkata and in Madrid, Paella. Almost everywhere they went, if there was a kitchen available and a way to acquire ingredients, Napoleon had cooked for him. One night, Napoleon had even baked chicken on their getaway car's exhaust manifold while they'd driven across country to meet a boat. 

 

Then they ended up back in New York, at U.N.C.L.E.'s headquarters. They'd been in Europe for four months straight this time around and although he had an apartment in the same U.N.C.L.E. security controlled apartment building that Napoleon did, he didn't expect to see him for a few days. Napoleon would take right back up where his busy social life had left off but he was certain that before long Napoleon would be inviting him round to dinner and in the meantime he had some reading to catch up on. 

Then he'd received the call from HQ to come in for a briefing on their next mission first thing the next morning. They couldn't reach Napoleon on his phone or communicator so Illya had offered to check his apartment in case he happened to be there and had just turned them off.

What he hadn't expected was the door to Napoleon's apartment to be opened by a complete stranger.

"Napoleon, did you order a Viking?" The stranger stared up at him, effectively blocking the door while looking like he was merely lounging there.

"I'm Russian."

"Even better." The stranger was almost as attractive as Napoleon when he smiled. "Napoleon, did you order a Russian?"

He was about to wipe the smile from that very attractive face when Napoleon appeared alongside the stranger. Disturbingly, Napoleon had an apron on over his clothes. Even more disturbingly, as the door opened further he could smell food cooking. 

Whoever this stranger was, Napoleon was cooking for him. He worked hard to control his trembling fingers. Napoleon could cook for anyone he wanted— anyone he wanted. It was not a happy thought. 

Napoleon tapped the stranger on the arm and he backed up, allowing Illya to enter the apartment. 

"Have you eaten, Illya?"

He shook his head. 

"Then you may as well join us." Napoleon walked back to the kitchen and the pair of them followed him. 

When Napoleon gestured, they both sat down at the table laid with two place settings and two half-filled glasses of wine. He was about to stand up again, deliver his message and leave when Napoleon set a full glass of wine down in front of him. 

"I really shouldn't introduce the two of you, but I'm not stupid enough to believe that you don't already know who Illya is anyway so I should at least even up the score." Napoleon pointed a finger at the stranger. "Illya, meet Satine." 

Satine mock saluted Illya, grinning broadly again and Illya thought about breaking his nose, the only way he could conjure an answering grin of his own. 

His grin lasted until Napoleon returned from the stove with three bowls in his hands which he set down with a flourish. "Borscht." 

The smell from the bowls was heavenly. He hadn't eaten it since— He stood up. "HQ couldn't reach you." There wasn't any point in not talking in front of Satine in the most general terms at least, given Napoleon admitting the man knew what business they were in anyway. "They want us in first thing tomorrow." He drained his wineglass. "I'm sorry to have interrupted your evening." He shoved his trembling hand deep into his pocket, all too aware that Napoleon would have noticed it. "Goodnight, Napoleon." 

 

He had no recollection of having left Napoleon's apartment but he must have because his next conscious thought was how relatively deserted Central Park was at 10:00pm at night. He glanced at his hands which were clean and unmarred. At least he hadn't made a complete fool of himself by rearranging Satine's face before leaving but why had the urge to do so been so strong? 

It would take an hour sat on a cold park bench to figure it out and another hour to decide that he was never going to tell Napoleon what he'd realized. 

 

He saw Napoleon at the briefing the next morning but managed to avoid him for the rest of the day as they went their separate ways in HQ to cover different aspects of the mission. He knew they'd be going out into the field together in a couple of days and it would have to be enough time to get himself under control by then. He could do this. He would do this. 

He was congratulating himself on getting out of HQ without seeing Napoleon again right up until he opened the door of his apartment and heard the sound of Napoleon singing along with the radio, some ridiculous nonsense about crying at his party if he wanted to. 

Napoleon yelled "Food's almost ready, if you want to wash up" and went right back to singing. 

He should have said something. Instead, he went to wash up.

He returned from his bathroom to find Napoleon in his kitchen dishing up Beef Bourguignon. "Cut the bread and take it over to the table."

It was laid with two place settings and two glasses of wine, just like it had been at Napoleon’s apartment for Satine.

"We're not lovers, Napoleon, you don't have to cook for me." He went to get his coat but Napoleon stopped him with a hand on his arm. 

"Stay and eat." 

Illya shrugged his hand off reaching again for his coat. 

"I didn't have sex with Satine, Illya."

Illya knew he hadn't managed to keep the disbelief off his face when Napoleon spoke again. 

"We have, in the past but despite a very long dry spell last night I realized I wasn't interested in repeating the experience."

"That bad?" The thought that Satine was a bad lover was scant consolation but consolation nonetheless. 

"No, he's extremely talented and very flexible but I don't want him anymore."

This time Illya got his coat all the way on before Napoleon stepped in close, blocking his way. 

He would just stand there and say nothing until Napoleon got tired and backed away. "You cooked for him."

"Satine was right," Napoleon murmured almost to himself before speaking more loudly. "I heated up borscht for him that I'd picked up at the deli two blocks over. I've never cooked for him."

"Never?"

"No. And now I only cook for you." Napoleon peeled him out of his coat and took his hand, leading him straight past the heavenly smelling Beef Bourguignon and back to his bedroom. 

Illya didn't mind at all, they could always eat it later.


End file.
